Summer at Tiffany

by Marjorie Hart

  I approached him, my face burning in shades of red.

  “Could you please direct us to the employment office?” I asked, my voice shaking.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” he said kindly. “Tiffany does not have an employment office.” Nodding to a man nearby, he added, “Our superintendent is over there. Perhaps he could help you.”

  A tall, stoop-shouldered man came forward. “May I help you, ladies?”

  “We would like to apply for work,” Marty said.

  “Work?” he echoed, as if we were speaking in tongues.

  “A summer position,” I clarified.

  Silence. An uncomfortable silence. I looked down, as if fascinated by the design of their parquet floor.

  Finally, the superintendent motioned to a door. “Please come this way.”

  We left the main floor for a narrow corridor, which took us to a small paneled office. He introduced us to his secretary, a fiftyish woman with tinted hair pulled back in a severe bun. She sat behind a desk, typing.

  “These young ladies are looking for summer work,” he said to her. She looked up; her eyes widened. “What kind of job are you looking for?” he asked us.

  “We could sell jewelry,” I said. What else?

  His eyebrows arched and the secretary pursed her lips, suppressing a laugh.

  “At Tiffany, we only have salesmen on the floor,” he said. “What’s your work experience? Do you know shorthand?”

  Marty explained that we were students from the University of Iowa and her major was in business and economics. She said that she had worked in a defense plant for the summer, and had administrative experience (as president of the university’s Business Club) and (because her father was a lawyer) some legal experience.

  When he looked at me, I hesitated. I was terrified I’d say something idiotic and look like a nitwit. I’d never been president of anything.

  In a small voice, I answered, “I’ve worked part-time at a campus dress shop. I’m a music major . . . and play the cello.” As if, wow, the cello would make the difference.

  The superintendent looked puzzled.

  “And you girls have come all the way from Iowa?” he asked as he looked at the secretary and rolled his eyes.

  “We’re here for the sum-mer,” Marty answered, enunciating every syllable, “living on Man-hat-tan.”

  “Near Columbia University,” I added, so he’d know our classy address.

  The secretary stared as if we were a couple of crazed runaways. The superintendent glanced at his watch.

  “I’m afraid there are no openings at Tiffany—for girls,” he said, putting all his emphasis on that last word.

  “I see,” Marty said, meeting his gaze, while I looked for the door. “But we have an important business reference for your president.”

  Marty—there are no openings!

  “Our president? President Moore?” he asked, stepping back.

  “Yes.” Marty repeated coolly. “President Moore.”

  The secretary pulled off her glasses. The superintendent reached for the telephone. I swallowed hard, stunned.

  OHMYGOSH. I CLAMPED my teeth; I felt nauseous. The bewildered superintendent had left, the secretary sent us furtive, frowning glances, and even Marty looked apprehensive, tracing a circle on the floor with the toe of her shoe.

  Our hope was our reference, Mr. Carl Byoir. We had met him the day before.

  “My dad said to look him up, first,” Marty had said. But we couldn’t find his address until we stepped back from the building and looked up to where his name was etched in stone across a tall building on Fortieth Street, near Madison Avenue: CARL BYOIR & ASSOC.

  “Good heavens, Marty—who is he?” I said, my eyes never leaving those perfectly carved letters.

  “I have no idea,” she said, staring at his name. “My dad only told me he’d gone from rags to riches.”

  On the top floor, we were ushered into his sumptuous office with a view overlooking the city. A short, balding man, he had the warmest smile that we’d seen since we’d arrived in New York City.

  “I hear you girls are from Iowa U.,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.” He shook our hands and motioned us to sit across from his enormous desk. “University of Iowa is the greatest college in the world—don’t you forget it!”

  While Marty relayed the news about her father’s partner—a man called “Stub” Stewart whose nickname came from his days as a football player on our college team—I stared, amazed, at the wall behind his desk. It was filled with photographs of Mr. Byoir with President Roosevelt. Some were at a mansion with Fala, the president’s dog, and one beside a huge tiered birthday cake. I hoped Mr. Byoir would explain them to me, but he was in his element recalling his college days. He had been manager of the Hawkeye, our college yearbook, and he told us that it was its success that had paved his way to New York City. He asked where we were living. How did we like the city? Would we like to go nightclubbing? Would we!

  “So where are you girls looking for work?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  When Marty mentioned Lord & Taylor, he said, “Oh, that would be a good place—my wife loves that store. Though Tiffany is really her favorite.” Then he winked. “I’ve been working for Tiffany’s ever since I married her!”

  Marty and I exchanged knowing glances. So that’s what he did.

  Before we left, he said, “My secretary will give you a card for a reference.”

  I was counting on that card, our ace in the hole.

  WHEN THE SUPERINTENDENT reappeared, he ushered us to a special elevator. Not a word was spoken. He tightened his paisley tie, pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded and refolded it, cleared his throat, wiped his palms, replaced his handkerchief, and checked his tie again. Stage fright. I knew the signs. I vowed to keep my mouth shut and let Marty do the talking.

  Reaching the top floor, the superintendent led us into an elegant lounge with velvet upholstered chairs and delicate French tables holding lavish accessories: a silver cigarette lighter, a cloisonné ashtray, and a letter opener mounted with gems. Along with an application, he handed us each a silver fountain pen.

  When we finished, he checked our applications and turned to Marty.

  “Miss Garrett, please come with me.”

  Only Marty? We were being interviewed separately?

  I panicked. My head was swimming and my hands began to feel clammy. Suppose I’d be asked things about Mr. Byoir that I didn’t know? Without Marty to do the explaining, I knew I’d be left stuttering and stammering. And if they asked for work experience, boy, was that dismal: straightening neckties at my father’s store, selling slips and girdles (oh no!) and bathing suits at Towner’s dress shop, and playing wedding gigs on the weekend. On second thought, they probably wouldn’t know what a gig was, or a cello. I knew darn well that mentioning the cello would evoke a baffled stare or an amused snicker. There wasn’t one impressive thing to talk about—if I could talk at all! What a pair we were: me with the squeaky voice, and the superintendent clearing his throat.

  They were back. Marty smiled and rolled her eyes.

  What did she mean?

  “Miss Jacobson,” the superintendent said.

  My legs trembled as I followed the nervous superintendent down the hall. We walked in single file, funereal style. Before he opened the door, I took three deep breaths, put on my gloves, and tilted my hat like Joan Crawford.

  Standing at the far end of a table—the length of a bowling alley—were two distinguished-looking gentlemen. The superintendent introduced the taller one as President Moore and the younger, round-faced man as a Tiffany nephew. The superintendent sat next to me, halfway down that long polished table. He was uneasy. I was petrified. I couldn’t have been more scared if it was my Carnegie Hall debut.

  President Moore gazed directly at me, holding my application.

  “Miss Jacobson, could you please tell us why you decided to find work here?”

  T
hat was easy.

  “Marty—Martha Garrett—and I were looking for a summer job.” I tried to sound as natural as possible, but my voice was quivering. “When we saw your store—well, we jumped off the bus and came right in.”

  The younger man smirked; the superintendent cleared his throat. I wished I could bite my tongue off.

  “I see you’re from Story City, Iowa,” President Moore continued. “How did you hear of the Tiffany Company?”

  “From the National Geographic—the ad on the first page of the magazine.” They seemed to like that answer. And it was true; when I was a little girl, my father would always open the latest issue and read it to me. The first page had glittering jewelry and he would point and say, “Tiffany.”

  “Your father’s name is Alfred Jacobson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He has a clothing store?”

  “Yes, Charlson Clothes Shop; it’s a men’s clothing store—with Hart Schaffner & Marx suits, Stetson hats, and Florsheim shoes—” I heard myself babble on, seizing the opportunity, feeling sure they were wearing the same top lines. Certainly, Florsheim shoes.

  “What is your nationality?”

  “I’m one hundred percent Norwegian,” I said proudly.

  When the president lifted my application, I caught a glint of gold cuff links.

  “Can you tell me how you pronounce this name—Mr. B-y-o-i-r?”

  “Byoir,” I said, pronouncing it so it sounded like Buyer.

  “How do you happen to know him?”

  “We met Mr. Byoir yesterday—through Martha Garrett’s father’s partner.”

  “What does he do?”

  Was this a trick question? “Mr. Byoir told us—he works for you.”

  The superintendent stared, President Moore smiled, and the nephew laughed out loud.

  “Thank you very much, Miss Jacobson,” President Moore said as he stood up. “I believe that is all. We’re delighted to meet you and Miss Garrett.”

  They smiled at me as we left, but when the door closed I could hear them laughing. Honestly! What had I said that was so funny? Which ill-chosen remark had done me in?

  The superintendent escorted us back to the lounge and left us alone. Before I could sit down, Marty started talking, her eyes sparkling.

  “Honest to God—you’re not going to believe this! President Moore said, ‘I see you’re from Des Moines. I know that city—I was stationed there at Fort Dodge during the First World War.’ ‘What a coincidence,’ I said. ‘My father was at Fort Dodge, too. Maybe you knew each other,’ and he said, ‘It could be. Ask your father.’ Wait till I tell—” She stopped short as the superintendent reentered the room.

  “We’d like you girls to come back next Monday. There may be a job possibility.”

  Next Monday? A possibility?

  I didn’t notice the doorman or the blast of heat when we sailed through the revolving door back onto Fifth Avenue.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  Guess what? We may have a job at Tiffany’s!! Can you believe it? We’ll find out this Monday—keep your fingers crossed! It’s only a possibility, so don’t you dare tell a soul till we know for sure!!

  That isn’t all—remember how Marty’s father wanted us to meet Carl Byoir? He’s very important—you should see the pictures of him with President Roosevelt, and with Fala. Also, he works for Tiffany’s—isn’t that a big coincidence?

  Our apartment is absolutely perfect—a studio couch in the living room for when the Long Island girls visit, a walnut desk like Aunt Charlotte’s, darling ruffled bedspreads in our bedroom, and even a pop-up toaster in the kitchen! Talk about lucky!!

  Don’t worry about us. This is not a dangerous town!

  Love, Marjorie

  But they would have been worried sick if I had told them that after finding the correct subway home, we’d gotten off at the wrong stop.

  Disoriented, we had wandered not more than thirty steps from the station, looking for any landmark we recognized, when a policeman caught up with us.

  “Hey—where’d you think you’re goin’?”

  “Morningside Drive,” I said, in a trembling voice.

  “You’re on Lenox. Morningside Drive’s on t’other side of the park. Follow that street,” he pointed, “and don’t you be comin’ down here again.”

  “For cripessake!” Marty said, striding off. I looked at the long hill before us, ready to cry. My feet throbbed, my dress stuck to my back, and I remembered my parents’ dire warnings about the big city after dark: robberies, kidnappings, and murders!

  But Lenox did not look dangerous. Kids were playing in the street, splashing in water, laughing and squealing. With blisters digging into my heels, I envied them—oh to go barefoot in hundred-degree weather. Halfway up the hill, Marty, who had started out like a Camp Fire girl on a relay race, was wilting.

  “If we end up in New Jersey, let me know,” she muttered.

  When I finally caught sight of Morningside Drive and could see the Seth Low apartment building in the distance, tears ran down my sweaty face. Thank heavens! Marty was resting against a fence. We looked at each other and would have laughed, had we had the energy.

  The desk clerk at our apartment building didn’t acknowledge us when we straggled in, carrying shoes, hats, and grubby gloves. The elevator man sniffed. But when we collapsed in our apartment, it felt like the Astor.

  Chapter Two

  WE WERE sitting in our sparsely furnished living room, eating day-old deli sandwiches, when the phone rang. Marty ran to answer it.

  “Hello . . . Sheila! How’s life at Lord and Taylor’s?”

  I slumped back on the studio couch and put my bare feet up on the pillows, staring with morbid fascination at my blisters.

  “Really? You’re getting discounts?” Marty was saying. “Sure, we applied there—great store—but we’re thinking of another place.”

  I sat up and clapped my hand over my mouth, to remind Marty.

  “Oh,” Marty continued in an offhand voice, “just a little shop we ran into up the avenue.” She winked at me.

  “This weekend? All of you? Yeah, we have a studio couch in the living room, but golly—”

  “What’s going on?” I mumbled, my mouth full of bologna.

  “Sure, we’re close to Columbia . . . what midshipmen? Ohmygosh! We had no idea!” Marty signed off, “Okay, you bet; we’ll see ya,” and then hung up the phone and slid into the worn chenille chair.

  “You won’t believe this,” she exclaimed, breathlessly. “Midshipmen are at Columbia!

  I jumped up. Midshipmen? “No kidding—so that’s why the girls are dying to spend the weekend.”

  “Why else? That—and to see our apartment.”

  “Don’t you dare spill the beans about Tiffany’s—”

  “Not till we sign on the dotted line—then watch out!” Marty laughed. “They’ll turn every shade of green.”

  “They’ll scream! Can you stand it?”

  Even though my blistered feet felt as if someone had boiled them in oil, I started laughing. How could we be that lucky? Sheila came from Long Island, and had invited several Kappa friends to spend the summer. All the talk had been about Lord & Taylor, Broadway theaters, Rockefeller Center, the Stork Club, El Morocco, Sardi’s, and the beaches. Now, the hot spot in Manhattan would be our apartment.

  That said, our little nest was far from perfect. The view from our living room window was a brick wall, it was stifling hot, the twin beds sagged, and the kitchen was so small you could barely open the fridge door. And the phone rang night and day—courtesy of the Checker Cab’s advertised number, one digit away. But despite its faults, we adored our tiny abode. To have our own Manhattan apartment without a parent or housemother within a thousand miles was a college girl’s dream.

  That night in our room Marty propped the pillow behind her head, balanced an ashtray on her chest, and took out a cigarette, “Don’t be surprised—I’ll bet the girl
s will be here every weekend.”

  It was okay with me. Sheila with her boundless energy and flair for funny accents could liven up any crowd. And our friend Joannie—never a blond hair out of place—was a good sport, though her mind was never far from her boyfriend, a flier in the Pacific. Anita was a whole other story. She’d attended a prep school, could speak French fluently, and smoked long, sexy Marlboro cigarettes with “red tips for the hot lips” so her lipstick marks wouldn’t show. Her pet name for Marty and me was “the sisters.”

  Compared to her own antics, she might have meant that we were stodgy like nuns, but Marty and I were mistaken for siblings all the time. We were the tallest girls in our sorority, combed our long blond hair in a Lauren Bacall style, wore the same kind of scuffed saddle shoes, and as one sweet guy put it, “You’re the gals with Betty Grable legs.” But the similarity between Marty and me ended there.

  I came from Story City, Iowa, a town so small that everyone was known by a nickname: “John’s Lena,” “Mrs. E.L.,” or “Hop Jacobson”—my father. I was called “Katherine’s little sister,” and blushed with pride every time I heard that, for it was the closest I’d come to celebrity status. The Des Moines Register had run a picture of Katherine when she was five, at a state diving exhibition, and later in high school when she won the National Music Contest as a violinist. She was the achiever, and my younger brother, Philip, was industrious and adventurous, while I was content to sit back and watch it all happen as the middle child.

  However, when I changed colleges for the University of Iowa, no one knew her, or me, and I floundered like a lost soul until I met Martha Garrett.

  Martha “Marty” Garrett was not only a popular girl on the University of Iowa campus, she was from Des Moines, the capitol of Iowa, and lived in a white brick Colonial home on a two-acre lot in a wooded area. She knew her way around the Wakonda country club, played a good game of tennis, enjoyed a whirlwind social life, wore beautiful sweaters, and had traveled as far as Mexico.